A stabbing sensation thrashes through my my optic nerve as my eyes pry themselves open. The stale, dank air does nothing to refresh my senses, and I realize with a sinking feeling that today is a Migraine Day. I close my eyes gently, hoping to relieve the pain somewhat, trying not to move my head. But just as I start to push the discomfort to the back of my mind, my companions' jarringly loud conversation rings out over the rustle of packing supplies.
Gingerly, I lift myself to a seated position. My eye throbs with every minuscule movement of my body, and briefly I consider aborting the mission in favor of lying in the fetal position for the rest of my life. But my team is moving more rapidly than I can make a decision, and grudgingly I creak into a standing position. With a fleeting thought toward my yet-unopened Spaghettios, I slouch off after the rest of the group, cursing my own ambition with each step.
[ZING]
We've walked for a while now, and in my affected daze, I have only been following the footsteps of the person walking in front of me - who happens to be Bordeaux, maybe not the best choice - instead of paying attention to our surroundings. I now realize we have come to a park - a playground, actually, which has quite obviously been abandoned for some time. Rio is speaking with an ancient Black woman standing near a bench, and though she is frail and weak-wristed, my initial reaction is to recoil slightly in fear.
She turns her face toward me, while still talking to Rio, and gazes at me, through me, with her cloudy white eyes.
[ZING]
On the day of my parents' disappearance, when I was nine, I was playing with the neighborhood kitten in the small patch of dead grass we called our lawn. The mangy black furball batted rambunctiously at my fingers as I traced a bit of string along the ground. The kitten was rearing back, wiggling its rear in preparation for a pounce, when a footstep behind us caused him to jump straight up into the air, and scramble into the nearby hedge. I jumped to my feet, wiping the dirt from my scraped knees, and slowly backtracked toward the front door. Searching the area, I saw no movement, but just as I turned to enter the house, I caught a glimpse of the most horrible face I have ever seen:
A man, with facial hair growing like foliage, sweat (or grease?) pooling at his scalp, dripping in rivulets down his face, stared at me from a spot within the neighboring rubble, grinning deliriously. His teeth were few, and sharpened into points; his eyes were bloodshot and yellow, nearly bulging out of his sockets. I could just barely hear his wheezing breath as he stared at me, watching me enter my house. I glanced away, inside the house, toward my parents - Mom was drinking a glass of juice at the table, and Daddy was reading a book next to her - and then back toward the spot behind the rubble where I'd seen the man crouching. But he was gone.
[ZING]
I return to the playground just as quickly as I left, but it seems no time has passed. The woman is still gazing through me, mid-sentence, and nothing has changed. Did I have a flashback? Is it the migraine? Did I fall asleep?
Did the woman force the memory somehow? Those eyes...
I think I ought to pay more attention to what she is saying.
"Anton! Anton, come here, child. It's time to go home." She is speaking now in the direction of the slide, upon which no child is playing. I look on in amazement as her unseeing eyes follow the path of an invisible being, right into her arms. Either this woman is playing a very elaborate game, or she really believes that her grandson is standing next to her. My head throbs almost insistently, as if it wants to bring the pain back to the forefront of my thoughts. I press my finger to the underside of my browbone, pushing my eye low in the socket, attempting to quell the ache for just a few moments more.
Bordeaux makes a move toward the woman, waving her arms through the space where the child is meant to be, and I nearly reach out to stop her, as I have a legitimate fear that she might hurt him. The woman pulls her child, real or not, away from Bordeaux, and starts to turn East, taking her leave to bring her grandson home. I panic - I feel there is something more that this woman can offer us.
"Wait!" I call after her.
"Yes my dear?" She turns and gazes through me again, those opaque eyes emitting an otherworldliness I can't understand.
"What is your name?" I am not sure how this information will be beneficial, but I can't think of anything else to say.
"They call me Grandmother Brooks." She waits a few moments, but we have nothing else to ask of her. She turns, with her grandson Anton in tow, and hobbles down the desolate, empty street. I feel a pang in my chest as I think of her, defenseless and unarmed, wandering the streets of Rivertown with only her faith to guide her.
[ZING]
With one final twinge, my migraine is inexplicably gone. Unburdened by that pain, I observe the playground for the first time. There is a slide, a rusting set of swings, and - oh my goodness - a merry-go-round in the center. I approach the large metal circle, touch its smooth bars, and begin to clear the debris from its surface. To my surprise, Bordeaux is at my side, and before I know it, we are both spinning in circles, setting our hearts free in this unabated moment of innocent joy.
The rusted metal contraption eventually slows its motion, and our laughter subsides as we stagger dizzily back toward the road. Though the butterflies in my stomach continue their dance for a few moments more, my mind returns to the face of the terrible nightmare man, and my feet to the broken concrete. We continue on.
Maybe Grandmother Brooks is better off than any of us.
[ZING]
A stabbing sensation thrashes through my my optic nerve as my eyes pry themselves open. The stale, dank air does nothing to refresh my senses, and I realize with a sinking feeling that today is a Migraine Day. I close my eyes gently, hoping to relieve the pain somewhat, trying not to move my head. But just as I start to push the discomfort to the back of my mind, my companions' jarringly loud conversation rings out over the rustle of packing supplies.
Gingerly, I lift myself to a seated position. My eye throbs with every minuscule movement of my body, and briefly I consider aborting the mission in favor of lying in the fetal position for the rest of my life. But my team is moving more rapidly than I can make a decision, and grudgingly I creak into a standing position. With a fleeting thought toward my yet-unopened Spaghettios, I slouch off after the rest of the group, cursing my own ambition with each step.
[ZING]
We've walked for a while now, and in my affected daze, I have only been following the footsteps of the person walking in front of me - who happens to be Bordeaux, maybe not the best choice - instead of paying attention to our surroundings. I now realize we have come to a park - a playground, actually, which has quite obviously been abandoned for some time. Rio is speaking with an ancient Black woman standing near a bench, and though she is frail and weak-wristed, my initial reaction is to recoil slightly in fear.
She turns her face toward me, while still talking to Rio, and gazes at me, through me, with her cloudy white eyes.
[ZING]
On the day of my parents' disappearance, when I was nine, I was playing with the neighborhood kitten in the small patch of dead grass we called our lawn. The mangy black furball batted rambunctiously at my fingers as I traced a bit of string along the ground. The kitten was rearing back, wiggling its rear in preparation for a pounce, when a footstep behind us caused him to jump straight up into the air, and scramble into the nearby hedge. I jumped to my feet, wiping the dirt from my scraped knees, and slowly backtracked toward the front door. Searching the area, I saw no movement, but just as I turned to enter the house, I caught a glimpse of the most horrible face I have ever seen:
A man, with facial hair growing like foliage, sweat (or grease?) pooling at his scalp, dripping in rivulets down his face, stared at me from a spot within the neighboring rubble, grinning deliriously. His teeth were few, and sharpened into points; his eyes were bloodshot and yellow, nearly bulging out of his sockets. I could just barely hear his wheezing breath as he stared at me, watching me enter my house. I glanced away, inside the house, toward my parents - Mom was drinking a glass of juice at the table, and Daddy was reading a book next to her - and then back toward the spot behind the rubble where I'd seen the man crouching. But he was gone.
[ZING]
I return to the playground just as quickly as I left, but it seems no time has passed. The woman is still gazing through me, mid-sentence, and nothing has changed. Did I have a flashback? Is it the migraine? Did I fall asleep?
Did the woman force the memory somehow? Those eyes...
I think I ought to pay more attention to what she is saying.
"Anton! Anton, come here, child. It's time to go home." She is speaking now in the direction of the slide, upon which no child is playing. I look on in amazement as her unseeing eyes follow the path of an invisible being, right into her arms. Either this woman is playing a very elaborate game, or she really believes that her grandson is standing next to her. My head throbs almost insistently, as if it wants to bring the pain back to the forefront of my thoughts. I press my finger to the underside of my browbone, pushing my eye low in the socket, attempting to quell the ache for just a few moments more.
Bordeaux makes a move toward the woman, waving her arms through the space where the child is meant to be, and I nearly reach out to stop her, as I have a legitimate fear that she might hurt him. The woman pulls her child, real or not, away from Bordeaux, and starts to turn East, taking her leave to bring her grandson home. I panic - I feel there is something more that this woman can offer us.
"Wait!" I call after her.
"Yes my dear?" She turns and gazes through me again, those opaque eyes emitting an otherworldliness I can't understand.
"What is your name?" I am not sure how this information will be beneficial, but I can't think of anything else to say.
"They call me Grandmother Brooks." She waits a few moments, but we have nothing else to ask of her. She turns, with her grandson Anton in tow, and hobbles down the desolate, empty street. I feel a pang in my chest as I think of her, defenseless and unarmed, wandering the streets of Rivertown with only her faith to guide her.
[ZING]
With one final twinge, my migraine is inexplicably gone. Unburdened by that pain, I observe the playground for the first time. There is a slide, a rusting set of swings, and - oh my goodness - a merry-go-round in the center. I approach the large metal circle, touch its smooth bars, and begin to clear the debris from its surface. To my surprise, Bordeaux is at my side, and before I know it, we are both spinning in circles, setting our hearts free in this unabated moment of innocent joy.
The rusted metal contraption eventually slows its motion, and our laughter subsides as we stagger dizzily back toward the road. Though the butterflies in my stomach continue their dance for a few moments more, my mind returns to the face of the terrible nightmare man, and my feet to the broken concrete. We continue on.
Maybe Grandmother Brooks is better off than any of us.